


Music's Conversation

by CaptainNautical



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainNautical/pseuds/CaptainNautical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Music interrupted the rain's one sided conversation and drifted softly into the room, taking it's presence as the most import thing and as one that asked to be listened to. John obliged by force." (this is very short by the way)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music's Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> sorry i haven't posted in so long

John came down from his room shaking. His fingers held tremors that wrapped up his arms and took hold of his heart to shake his lungs and diaphragm. The nightmares he came back from war with had since abated, they were sparse and here and there, but when they were there, he could feel it for days after. Now being one of those times, John limped to the sofa and sat himself down in the corner of it, bringing a pillow up to his lap and pulling absently on the tassels. Rain was falling outside and John couldn't keep his breathing constant or even, not quite heaving; but heavy enough to be vocal and on the verge of tears as his friends were killed over and over. Guts on the streets. A brain being blown in against a brick wall. Too much blood. John's fingers flexed tight into the pillow, closing his eyes once more as he sat-- unaware someone else was up.  
But Sherlock was seated on top of his chair, a pen and notebook in his hands as he thought of a new composition to try in the morning. His eyes were up now, and he watched John silently as he limped to his seat presently on the sofa. He blinked a few times, John's silhouette outlined in black and highlighted around the right side of his face from the orange street lamp outside. The rain was the only one speaking.  
John's fingers were clenching and unclenching in the pillow and his jaw worked against his teeth. His breath hitched a bit higher and Sherlock set down his things to the floor below him. Bare feet pushed against the leather as he reached and grabbed his violin case, trying to pop it open as quietly as possible while John sat consumed in his own brain.  
Memories swam around in his psyche, surfacing at random and when they wanted to; Sholto almost blowing himself apart. Connor being dragged unconscious with a trail of blood thick and sticking to the hot sand. Clair--  
John flinched when the first notes of Sherlock's violin struck in the air. "Christ-" He gasped, his arm jerking and almost throwing the pillow in his direction upon instinct. The chance died away as he blinked rapidly up towards the noise.  
Sherlock was still perched on his chair, one foot on the seat and the other propped up against the arm. His frame dipped and turned slightly with the motion and John started shaking.  
Music interrupted the rain's one sided conversation and drifted softly into the room, taking it's presence as the most import thing and as one that asked to be listened to. John obliged by force, blinking down to the floor and rubbing at his eyes that had started to drip when he had started so bad.  
Sherlock kept his eyes on John, waiting to catch his gaze as he played through John's shaking and rubbing at his face- compulsive behavior always comes up when he's upset.  
When the dark eyes finally reached up to his, Sherlock's head and body motioned to the pillow on the other side of the sofa. John took a minute to understand, but when he did he shook his head and sniffed (he was upset with the sniff that escaped him and rubbed at his face once more) shaking his head a second time. Sherlock paused in his music and stared at John some more.  
"Lay down." He commanded, though his tone was no different than if he were asking John to do a favor for him. With this, John complied, hesitantly crawling over to the other side of the sofa, and laying his head against the bigger pillow.  
The music had started again while John moved, it's composer nodding his head when John reached up and pulled a quilt over his frame.  
John was trying to seen calm- his eyes fixed straight forward, jaw clenched on top of his teeth, and hand coming up to swipe under his nose to prevent any embarrassment.  
These attributes started to fade when John let himself listen to the music. First it was his shoulders that a long, low, note coaxed down in a relaxed position. Then it was his eyes that drifted shut in the middle of a chorus. Next his fingers, his mouth that was suddenly slack and open, his legs he let stretch out.  
The final thing was John's mind. That no music could fix. For that Sherlock finally ended his song with a perfect, drawn out, syllable. He moved forward and sat down on the side of the coffee table. John's eyes didn't move from their shut position, his body thoroughly limp, but Sherlock knew he wasn't asleep.  
"John." He said calmly, the man not flinching this time in response, only rolling his head a little in his direction. "You're home."


End file.
